


You Are Every Sin I Died For

by Ronri_Majesty



Series: Every Sin (Empress Consort Obi-Wan AU) [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Bathroom Sex, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Captivity, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emperor Anakin Skywalker, Emperor Darth Vader, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Mpreg, M/M, Married Obikin, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obsessive Behavior, Poor Obi-Wan Kenobi, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Smut, Suitless Darth Vader, Top Anakin Skywalker, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaderkin, Vaderwan, dub/non-con sex, mentions of depression, post-mustafar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ronri_Majesty/pseuds/Ronri_Majesty
Summary: Obi-Wan slowly emerges from the gentle waterfall, rivulets running down his body as if trying to sneak through every dip and crease there is, most notably in his drenched robe, which clung to the planes of his lean figure like a second skin, crystalline streams scoring numerous paths down the slight crinkles of the laden fabric.“Oh,” he breathes when he meets a gaze of molten amber.Or:Obi-Wan is wet, Vader is thirsty, and trouble ensues. And by trouble, I mean Vader.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Series: Every Sin (Empress Consort Obi-Wan AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155101
Comments: 43
Kudos: 274





	You Are Every Sin I Died For

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE HEED THE TAGS. If you love yourself, you know when to back away and move on to safer waters.
> 
> About a 1/3 of this was typed on my phone during the dead of night when I should’ve been sleeping (my poor eyes have regrets). The rest came all too easily to me in the following days (felt like I was possessed to write this), much to the shame of my inner prude-ness. 
> 
> On the other hand, this is actually my first-ever officially completed and posted smut. Like, whoa, took me years to pop that cherry. I am no longer a smut-writing virgin. 
> 
> Furthermore, this is also my first Star Wars fic. I am no expert of the fandom, merely a humble, casual fan who suddenly had Obikin feels.
> 
> Hmm, I bet all my God-worshipping ancestors are rolling in their graves right now, because I was technically sinning on a Sunday when I conceived this.
> 
> Edited: 2/10/21

**You Are Every Sin I Died For**

The Great Jedi Temple of Coruscant was no more, has not existed in years, but Obi-Wan remembers what it was like before it became nothing more than a memory, a ghost haunting the part of his mind that still clung to the past.

Assets collected from all over the galaxy and throughout the ages had been stored in the Temple. Shelves upon shelves of knowledge and stories tucked away in the Archives and supervised by a strict curator; valuables that could win sentiment or enforce authority ensconced deep within the treasury behind the security of a blast door. These were safeguarded from the tempted but preserved for the enlightened as what was asked of them. However, neither the Archives nor the treasury room held any of its precious possessions anymore.

(Because those were ransacked.)

The interior of the Temple had sheltered all sorts of species throughout all stages of their lives. Within its embrace, it bore witness to many incidents, of returns and departures, of secrets and truths. It remained a witness still when its inhabitants were slain. This unassuming entity had mourned to no end when its floors were bathed in blood, its air reeking of decay, and its lifetime of care blanketed in darkness.

(Because it was desecrated.)

Tall, massive, and imposing, the Temple had represented many things in its existence—a sanctuary and a school, a nucleus and a mystery. Down to its core, it was the center of the Jedi Order, where the Code was honored, the Force was mastered, and the Jedi pursued tranquility. But, in the end, after thousands of years of standing firm, it failed to last thousands of years more.

(Because everything was set ablaze.)

With that, the end of one marked the beginning of another, as dictated by the natural laws of creation. What rose from the ashen husk of its predecessor was the Imperial Palace, a distorted facsimile of what had been the venerated realm of the Jedi.

Only one Jedi lives within that reborn edifice now.

_And in that palace, a Sith lives with that Jedi._

That same Sith used to be a Jedi as well—a truth no one is allowed to speak of. An act of treason.

Yet not entirely so. The one person who could speak of that truth and live to tell the tale is the same person who remains by the Sith’s side as a captive.

But there is no point in asking him. It hurts Obi-Wan to think about it, much less talk about it, an old wound that only gets worse and worse every time it is torn open again.

_It is best that some stories are left to be forgotten in time._

Emperor Darth Vader and Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker. Two sides of the same coin. But when this two-faced man dismantled the Republic and eradicated his enemies, it did not matter which identity he assumed, only that he had done everything and anything he could to get what he wanted.

He killed one master to protect the other. He eliminated the Order to free himself of the Code and the Council. He named himself ruler to an empire he never planned to inherit but chose to control the masses anyway.

_He locked up his love in a gilded cage to keep him all to himself._

A gilded cage—what else could that be but the Imperial Palace?

It is ironic as much as it is poetic justice that the only home Obi-Wan ever knew of would be his home once again in its new flesh. Permanently. In one respect, he had never left this place and probably never will. Destined to be bound to it forevermore by whatever— _guilt, sentiment, hope_ —enslaved his will.

_Love._

Yes, that one. That’s it. The true culprit.

Obi-Wan is a slave to love, his greatest and final sin.

* * *

Obi-Wan has never been one for overindulgence, and that has scarcely changed even when under house arrest in a palace built for the king of kings. Even when married to the owner of the said palace, someone who has no qualms about giving him all the money he could ever dream of.

Then again, _scarcely_ does not mean _absolutely_.

The bathing room he retreats to is spacious, designed with luxury and beauty in mind, as it should be, considering that the architect had to outdo himself to impress the imperial family. In hindsight, calling it a room is a vast understatement; it is more of a facility, like the ones found at high-end resorts in coveted vacation spots. Yet this one belongs to the private wing of the Imperial Palace.

The chamber itself is enclosed and rectangular and fashioned primarily out of exquisite cuts of stones imported offworld. The floor is an artful canvas of mosaic colors. The paths framed within ivory borders and constructed from hexagonal pieces of polished lazuli porcelain stained with beige tendrils. The center an intricate spiral of a blossoming amethyst flower shaded by plum accents, gold specks scattered throughout its petals, and its contours inlaid with iridescent mother-of-pearl. Star-shaped polygons are stenciled along the perimeter, whereas the corners are glossy black diamonds. The sections wrapped around the underground pools boast mesmerizing zigzag patterns, thin and sharp.

Marbles ranging from pale gray to dark green constitute the walls, every inch of surface streaked with wispy, curious veins. Pillars and ledges stand out with their gold embellishment, flanked by life-sized statues of human-like entities and mythical creatures, but the alcoves distributed along the walls offset the overall scheme as they modestly offer their coral-themed shades and delicately drawn details. Meanwhile, the ceiling pays homage to the open air and light found in the heavens. Recessed sections are either squared or circular, acting as artificial skylights that have panels of stained-glass windows embedded in them.

Obi-Wan has to admit it: he loves water. He finds solace in the suppleness of its wet touch, the splashing pitter-patter noise it makes as it rains down, the muted realm of its depths when he submerges himself under into its embrace.

A long soak in the thermal mineral pool had eased the ache in his joints, the steam a balm to the headache he typically sported after a long day of responsibilities. After that, he had gone over to the mounted shower jet systems, turning on one of the panels to wash his hair under its warm spray.

By the time he is thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom, Obi-Wan has found his center of harmony, perfectly calm and relaxed. But he doesn’t leave right away. The ambiance here is too comforting, too captivating, so he stays a little while longer to meditate, which he does while standing underneath the cool cascade of the manmade waterfall that dominates the center of the room, clad in a bathrobe to maintain a modicum of decency. It is one of the few instances of self-absorption that he permits himself to have, to bask in such riveting sensations, if only for a short time.

Minutes later, a familiar presence—one that is stunning and superior in all the ways that it can be—appears in the Force, and he gasps when it reaches out to grasp his signature searchingly, predatorily. This avaricious prodding to his lifeforce fishes him out of the stupor he had lost himself in.

_He’s home._

A shiver crawls down Obi-Wan’s spine as the owner of that brilliant lifeforce barges through his comparatively weak shields. Because of the Force-suppression bracelet fettered around his wrist, the Jedi’s governance over the Force is tightly regulated, as if by a pressure control valve. So, although he can feel the Force, he is unable to muster much strength or influence over it. Before, he was able to sense lifeforms over a large span of distance and receive all sorts of warnings and insight from the Force; now, his range is pitiful, barely stretching out as far as a meter radius, and any connection he has through the Force is secured to a select few.

One of them being his husband—his strongest, oldest bond.

With his Force signature held in the hands of the other, Obi-Wan uses the opened bond to track the Sith’s location this way, though his perception is still quite tenuous, like trying to detect a ship with the naked eye as it weaves through cloud-ridden skies.

Finally, that bright spot in his mind’s eye enters the hall leading to the bathing room. It’s time for Obi-Wan to reveal himself. No more hiding behind illusions of confidentiality and serenity, but instead behind a well-crafted mask of civility and stoicism.

Obi-Wan slowly emerges from the gentle waterfall, rivulets running down his body as if trying to sneak through every dip and crease there is, most notably in his drenched robe, which clung to the planes of his lean figure like a second skin, crystalline streams scoring numerous paths down the slight crinkles of the laden fabric. At some point, those streams would slide off and scatter as fat droplets onto the porcelain floor below. There, they reunite to form a puddle around a pair of bare feet, distorting the strict straight lines and whimsical spidery strokes of the colored tiles. _Drip, drip, drip._

He shuts off the waterfall behind him with a lazy wave of his hand as he lifts his head. From beneath a sodden curtain of glistening copper hair, eyes of a stormy ocean blue peek out, staring across the sweeping expanse of the room towards the man standing underneath the ornamental archway—the man who resembles a shadowy apparition in his dark attire, looking so out-of-place amidst an illuminated backdrop.

“Oh,” he breathes when he meets a gaze of molten amber. That gaze alone is hotter than the steamy depths of the thermal pool, of which he had just taken a dip in. Unthinkingly, Obi-Wan’s first reaction is to blush and dither when belatedly reminded of the fact that he’s wearing nothing but a thin bathrobe. A white one. A _soaked_ one. And it takes all of his willpower to squash such a ridiculous reaction. The urge to adjust the semitransparent garment over himself is just as strong, but he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to the exposed parts of his body, so instead, he lightly folds his hands together against his stomach, fingering his wedding ring absently. He dips at the waist in a semi-formal bow and utters a courteous greeting, “Welcome home, Your Majesty. Forgive me for not receiving you in the main foyer. I was informed that you were not due to return until tomorrow morning.”

“It is of no consequence,” says the emperor, the simmering, low burn of his entranced gaze never letting up. The Force simmers and undulates in correlation as well, like how a desert’s heat would bend light to cast subtle mirages along the horizon. “I didn’t expect to come back as early as I did either. I’m glad I did, though…”

The leer is deliberate, running up and down his partially nude figure as if in a caress; it is all too intimate, making Obi-Wan’s blood rush. He is flashed an approving smirk.

“It’s worth it if this is the sight I’m rewarded with when I come home. You should welcome me home like this more often, Obi-Wan. I’m all for having treats you’re willing to give, you know.”

Obi-Wan knows better than to chase after that suggestion. Instead, he asks, mildly, “I’ve already washed up, but would you like to join me anyway? A good scrub and a hot soak would be nice after a long and wearisome trip, wouldn’t it?”

Vader arches a brow. “Will you be tending to me?”

Obi-Wan assents with a slight tilt to his head. “If that is what you wish, My Lord. Just say the word.”

The Sith narrows his eyes as if offended by the implied _else_ in that notion. “I’ll always want you,” he says, low and dark, “make no mistake.”

Again, being wise, Obi-Wan doesn’t address the maelstrom of promises and implications that buffet him from his husband’s response. He crosses the room, the hard surface tiles warm underneath his feet as he pads over to his lover, his path marked by the crystalline droplets still trickling off his slender form.

Obi-Wan grabs Vader by the hand and then tows him back down the hall, herding him into the adjoining changing room. In there, the emperor is cooperative as Obi-Wan undresses him, shrugging off his mantle when the clasp is unfastened, removing his arms from the holes of his outer robe and inner tunics when they are tugged off, stepping out of his trousers when the belt is removed, the closure undone. While all of this is happening, Vader is quiet as he carefully observes Obi-Wan, trying to catch glimpses of his discomposure. To his credit, Obi-Wan doesn’t falter in his movements, but there are little indicators that prove he is inarguably affected by his husband’s single-minded attention and the steady revealing of his attractive body. The pursed lips, the twitch to his upper cheek, the faint hitch to his breath—Vader sees it all, and he smiles, pleased, pressing a kiss to Obi-Wan’s temple.

“Come now,” Obi-Wan gently urges, taking him by his hand again and leading him out of the changing room and over to the shower section of the chamber. “Let’s wash your hair first.”

Obi-Wan turns on the jet system, and Vader wordlessly ducks under the spray. Lined up on the neighboring shelf are shampoo bottles of assorted fragrances. Obi-Wan chooses a heady, spicy scent that he thinks suits his husband. Since the other man is much taller than him, Obi-Wan has to stretch out his arms just to reach his head. He says nothing about the broad hands that settle on his hips to keep him steady, thumbs rubbing his skin through the thin fabric of the bathrobe. Though it’s clear Obi-Wan has to strain himself to wash the other’s hair, Vader doesn’t duck his head right away to shorten the difference in their heights, all because he likes to tease Obi-Wan and see how he’ll respond. Will he snap at him? Click his tongue? Roll his eyes? A rough tug to his shampoo-slick hair is what he gets this time in retaliation. Obi-Wan squeezes the strands a second time in admonition until Vader willingly lowers his head. Even at this height, he looms over the ginger-haired man, their noses almost touching.

“How was your day?” Vader asks, murmured against Obi-Wan’s cheekbone.

A small, placid smile flits across Obi-Wan’s lips as he continues to massage the soap into dark ombré blond curls while adamantly ignoring the handsome face that is deliberately occupying every inch of his vision. His voice is tinged with faint amusement and familiar exasperation as he replies, “The same old, same old, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t want to hear about it, My Lord, or else you’ll be bored to tears.”

The emperor is undeterred. “But I _do_ want to hear it. Tell me.”

And so, Obi-Wan delicately outlines his day. His morning had been hectic, starting with the children during breakfast. The rowdy toddlers had thrown their food around for the sake of fun and giggles, whereas the eldest had little appetite for anything except for unhealthy, sugary foods like pancakes and scones. Then, while the nanny droids took care of the children, Obi-Wan went to work. He had gone through two meetings—the first over the implementation of education reforms in the Mid-Rim, the second a diplomatic reception of visiting dignitaries—before working on a speech in his office. Late afternoon, he entertained the children, getting wrapped up in all their playacting games of make-believe, until it was time for dinner. For anything else that happened afterward, there wasn’t much to say. It was just any ordinary evening.

Yes, using the bathing facility was an ordinary occurrence.

But using the bathing facility and being cornered there by his husband, who would no doubt see him as a treat to be devoured—not so ordinary. Seducing his husband like this was very much unintentional as it was ill-advised, especially if it got out of hand and evolved into something more.

This worst-case scenario feels imminent, which prompts Obi-Wan to hope, to plead: _please let me walk out of this room in one piece, and preferably on my own two legs._

But because his lover _did_ have other plans, the thing Obi-Wan is trying so hard to keep from happening is inevitable. No one has the power to stop Vader—he can have Obi-Wan whenever, however, and as much as he wants. And that’s that.

It hangs in Obi-Wan’s peripherals—an hourglass counting down to the moment when the Sith forfeits all sense of self-control. With each second that passes, his dread builds, as does the sand at the bottom of the hourglass.

The moments that lead to the summit of their encounter start when Vader nuzzles a trail from Obi-Wan’s temple down to his ear. The way Obi-Wan’s fingers, which were combing through the other’s hair to rinse out the lather, twitch is a dead giveaway of his unease when teeth graze his earlobe. Thankfully, those teeth don’t do more than gently nibble the appendage before Vader pulls away to brush his mouth against the corner of Obi-Wan’s.

“ _I missed you_ ,” the emperor whispers hungrily, forbiddingly, into his damp skin, and despite the ever-present warmth around them—from the heated floors to the steam of the thermal pools, and even from the hot breath exhaled into his jaw—Obi-Wan breaks out in goosebumps, shuddering.

“Every time I’m away from you, it feels as if I’m wandering through a void while time stretches out forever,” his husband continues, his voice deepening into sullen tones. “I shouldn’t have gone on that survey. There was very little importance in seeing the conditions of those new colonies for myself.”

“You are the emperor,” Obi-Wan says a matter-of-factly, each word articulated with care to mask how apprehensive and tense he feels inside. “Those colonies are dedicated to your name, your empire. It is only right that you are formally introduced to them and see the progress of their transition for yourself.”

The upper half of that hourglass is nearly empty. The Force shifts as Vader’s intentions shift. His longing is heavy and suspenseful as it crawls past the brittle barrier that serves as Obi-Wan’s shield. It latches onto his tender core, feverish and intoxicating, but the Jedi refuses to give in so early.

In what he considers as his final act of defiance, Obi-Wan diverts the hands kneading hot imprints on his sides by nudging his husband over to the pool. The Sith is displeased by the diversion, his mouth flat and gaze sharp, but drops down into the mineral-enriched water as directed and takes a seat on the built-in bench, hardly objecting as Obi-Wan scrubs the sweat and dead skin off his body with a brush.

Of course, Obi-Wan is well-aware that his excuses, his petty preventive measures, won’t last much longer. Vader has reached his limit.

He barely manages to get halfway done with his task when Vader swivels around to hug his waist, burying his face against Obi-Wan’s stomach.

Soon enough, Obi-Wan feels his skin being nipped through the thin, soggy robe. Lower and lower the nipping goes, promising sin wherever it touched.

Obi-Wan loses his grip on the brush when Vader dips his face underneath his robe and licks a stripe along his navel. Then a startled gasp escapes his throat when a hot and velvety mouth envelops his length. He rears back against the edge of the pool where he’s perched, instinctively clenching his legs together, but there are hands—one flesh, the other durasteel—gripping his thighs tight and pulling them apart, refusing to let him struggle or escape. Teeth and tongue work together to break apart Obi-Wan’s willpower, teasing him as much as they were taunting him to surrender.

Yet, still intact are dredges of Obi-Wan’s self-preservation.

“Wait,” he moans, shakily tugging at his lover’s hair that he doesn’t remember grabbing. “Don’t. Please, Your Majesty, I’m tired.” His voice is small, pleading.

The emperor pulls away to peer up at him with dark, smoldering eyes. Emanating from his form are intense, roiling waves of lust and possessiveness, the magnitude of which chokes Obi-Wan breathless, his head swimming and veins heating up.

“So am I,” Vader rumbles, licking his lips, “but I won’t rest till I have you first.” And this promise, just as any other promise, is ominous when said by a Sith.

Done with words, Vader spreads Obi-Wan’s legs wider and then probes his exposed hole with a tongue, generously coating the rim with saliva. Obi-Wan has a hand thrown over his eyes as he is too hyperaware of the ministrations being done to him, a hand fondling his half-erect member while the other is curved along the inside of his thigh as a silent reminder to keep his legs spread. The auburn-haired man stifles a whimper when his entrance is finally breached, the tongue meeting little resistance as it slides in the first half-inch. His hearing is accosted by obscene noises he doesn’t want to describe because it embarrasses him, his ears and chest burning in shame as his traitorous mind provides him images of what exactly his husband is doing to him to make such obscene noises.

His next whimper breaks free from his control when a cool, semi-slick finger joins the probing. His passage stings at being stretched like this, clenching around the intrusion on reflex, but the Force quivers, and a growl warns him to cooperate, so he tries to distract himself, counting backwards from a hundred by three.

However, by the time he painstakingly reaches seventy-nine, a burst of pleasure flashes behind his eyelids.

“Nngh!” Obi-Wan thrashes as electrifying convulsions wrack his frame, every one of his nerves set alight. The tongue is gone, replaced by two fingers scissoring him open. That sweet spot inside him is pressed again and again and _again_. “N-no, please,” he whines through his panting. “Not t-there, it’s too—AH!”

“That’s more like it,” Vader says, his handsome face twisted into a satisfied smirk. _This_ is the reaction he wants. “Yes, that’s it. Give in, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan dares to open his eyes. Past the hand he has shielding his wrecked expression, he looks at the other man, desperate and beseeching. “Your Majesty, doing it here—”

He’s cut off when another finger is inserted, and it wrings out a broken groan from him. There’s so much pleasure mingling with the pain, like drinking alcohol to relish the gratifying buzz it gives after enduring the burn of it down your throat. “Why…must we…mmph!”

The Sith clicks his tongue, unamused. While still prying Obi-Wan open, the hand he has on the smaller man’s dick becomes rough, groping and rubbing till more and more pre-cum leaks from the tip. “What did I say about calling me that when we’re alone?” he snaps.

 _That you hate it,_ Obi-Wan thinks through the haze of pleasure fogging up his mind. _That I shouldn’t, or else you’ll get mad._

Unless they were out in public or within the company of influential figures, Vader prefers for Obi-Wan to call him by his name—a special privilege only reserved for the Jedi, the Empress Consort.

The Sith all but erupts with rapture and love and hunger whenever Obi-Wan frantically calls out to him during their lovemaking. It means everything to him to hear how his name, Anakin— _my Anakin, husband, dear one, dearest, darling, love_ —is said in those breathy, needy, incoherent moans that spill out from his lover’s trembling lips. He _has to_ _hear_ Obi-Wan come undone while saying the name of the man he belongs to. No exceptions.

Vader leans down to cover Obi-Wan’s mouth with his own in a demanding kiss, pressing his aching arousal against the pelvis of the older man as he does so.

Helpless, Obi-Wan kisses back, but every time his mouth is free for a split second, he protests, “Shouldn’t...do this...right now...the kids...”

“Won’t notice if we’re gone a little while longer,” the emperor says, not at all worried. “The nanny droids will keep them busy.”

The fingers stuffed within Obi-Wan are removed, and an arm wraps around him to lever him up off his back and bring him closer to a long, muscular body. Obi-Wan hardly registers this, though, too distracted by the mouth dominating his.

Trying to finish his previous thought, Obi-Wan wrenches his mouth away so that he can speak, breathing heavily. “If we’re not there—to tuck them in for bed—they’ll throw a fuss.”

His show of reluctance to proceed any further than what they’ve already done irritates Vader, who lashes out sharply, “Hush. If your thoughts are not about me and what I’m doing to you right now, then don’t think at all.”

An icy rush of dread surges through Obi-Wan when his obstinate husband puts an end to their conversation, thereby snuffing out the Jedi’s last pitiful attempts to escape his grasp. Vader yanks Obi-Wan over into the pool and hitches him up against his own body for support, the surface of the disrupted water lapping at their torsos. With the way he’s held, Obi-Wan has no choice but to cinch his legs around the taller man’s waist as large hands frame the underside of his thighs, holding him steady. He goes from clutching at his husband’s shoulders to squeezing them for dear life when he’s breached from below, the head of the cock pushing through the first ring of muscles too fast that he’s crying out and scratching in protest. If tears well up in his eyes, they are lost amongst the water droplets already clinging to his cheeks when they fall.

Next to his ear is heavy panting, and through that, a deep voice is saying, “Even after all this time, you still fight it. Come on, love, relax for me. Don’t tighten up.” Hands massage the tense muscles of the thighs they hold. More panting assaults Obi-Wan's ear, but between each rasp of breath, orders and reassurances are murmured to him. _Yes, let go, just like that. Don’t forget to breathe. Easy there._ Vader slowly fucks up into the tight heat enclosed around him.

Obi-Wan feels like he’s being split in half as the cock gets wedged in further. Not using proper lubrication didn’t help with the penetration process, and the same goes for being too on edge, which keeps his muscles taut. The first is Obi-Wan’s punishment for his noncompliance. The second is because he’s worried about something—not so much the act of sex itself, but by what that may possibly come about from their union.

“The…contraceptive…we forgot it…”

Obi-Wan frets that he might conceive again.

It’s supposed to be more or less unfeasible for a human male with no known abnormalities to bear a child, yet that is exactly what happened to Obi-Wan. Twice, to be precise. He had somehow conceived twice and carried the babies to term as if it were any normal pregnancy. Baffled healers said it was a miraculous and puzzling phenomenon as much as they labeled it as a fluke. None of the healers could comprehensively figure out the truth behind Obi-Wan’s pregnancies, which he expected because they weren’t intimately aware or knowledgeable of the factors involved. The Jedi knew just _who_ and _what_ were the real culprits here.

Vader and the Force. At this angle, it makes all the more sense, at least to those familiar with the Force. For civilian healers and researchers, the things the Living Force could do were unimaginable—beyond the laws of nature. Yet Vader—no, _Anakin Skywalker_ is living proof of the Force’s wondrous capabilities. He is _the_ child of the Force, borne by a mother yet conceived without a father.

For that reason, Obi-Wan has had a hunch that Vader had done something with the Force to impregnate him. However, it remained a hunch, as Obi-Wan could never muster up the courage to confront his husband about it, even when he had all the opportunities to do so during the times he cradled his little ones to his bosom. A part of Obi-Wan wanted to know the truth as he had every right to know, yet another part of him would falter in trepidation because some things were better left unsaid. The latter impulse has won every single time. Whenever their children surrounded Obi-Wan, Vader would have this scary, indecipherable look on his face as he stared at the older man. His gaze would be dark and half-hooded despite the suffusing warmth in them, his blistering Force signature rife with fulfillment and euphoria yet steeped in something addictive and fearsome.

“Please, not inside,” Obi-Wan begs against his husband’s throat as the man thrusts into him relentlessly. The water sloshes around them, splashing out of the pool and onto the stone floor as their frantic movements churn it up like tidal waves during a storm. Each time his prostate is rubbed, his words are interrupted by a punched-out moan. “Take it out,” he cries, digging his nails into the flesh underneath his fingertips. “What if I get pregnant again? I don’t think I can bear another one. It _hurts_.”

Since his words seem to fall on deaf ears, Obi-Wan uses the Force to project his thoughts. He relays the agony and fear of labor. He had birthed each child naturally, and it was an experience that terrified him more than anything else in the galaxy. The pain notwithstanding, the thing he fears most about it is him or the baby dying. Worse, _both_ of them dying. Obi-Wan could not bear the thought of bringing his innocent child with him to death’s cold embrace, so inextricably tied to one another as they would be in that state, an infant dependent on its mother.

That does the trick. The Sith shudders and then stiffens, his jarring movements coming to a stop. Obi-Wan is relieved when he is lowered onto the pool’s bench, though their bodies stay joined. Vader is leaning over him, boxing him in against the wall. The younger man takes a moment to steady his breathing before speaking up.

“Obi-Wan, love, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” The reassurance is soft and adoring, yet it dismisses Obi-Wan’s feelings all the same, unsympathetic as the one whose desires matter more is the same one who says those very words. The emperor cups Obi-Wan’s cheek, stroking it as he adds, “Another child would be welcomed, you know that. And you’ll be taken care of, just like before.”

“ _More_?” Obi-Wan nearly scoffs at this, exasperated and tired. “I can hardly keep up with the ones we have now. At this rate, I’ll start losing track of them. And they’ll overpower me as much as they outnumber me. I’ll be helpless, completely at their mercy.”

Though his complaint is laced with bitterness underneath the lighthearted self-deprecation, it makes Vader chuckle regardless. It’s absurd how Obi-Wan feels short of breath when his unfairly gorgeous husband smiles, irresistible. That beautiful, roguish smile never fails to make his heart stutter.

“What are you saying? You don’t give yourself enough credit.” Vader nuzzles his face and brushes featherlight kisses against every surface of skin his lips come in contact with. “Everyone knows you’re wonderful with children. They’re drawn to you like magnets and hold onto your every word. Like I was.”

_Oh, he did not just say that he—_

Despite how he conscientiously stifles any sign of indignation he has to avoid confrontations with the Sith, Obi-Wan levels an affronted look at the other man, his former padawan who did the craziest of things once upon a time. The insufferable, irrational bane of his existence? That, too. “Oh, were you? Strange, how did that slip my notice? All I remember is the mayhem and altercations you caused. Was that how you showed affection then—by giving me so much grief? For all those gray hairs, sleepless nights, and countless tears?”

That humored smile becomes a crooked smirk as the emperor replies, unrepentant, “You were blind, now you are not. And you’ll never have to grieve like that again, not while I have the power to stop it.”

Bright gold eyes trace the smaller man’s smooth, pale, but glowing features that bespoke of his good health. A cybernetic hand reaches out to let a golden auburn lock rest against durasteel fingertips. Someone could thoroughly examine Obi-Wan from top to bottom, yet they would find not a single wrinkle, scar, or gray hair. None whatsoever. The memories of those blemishes were gone as well.

After all, Vader had learned of many secrets and gone through great pains to keep himself and his love in perfect health. Another action done out of fear and obsession—and, in Obi-Wan’s case, done without permission, like everything else.

_Oh, Anakin. The thing is, I do grieve. Always have. Always will._

These are words Obi-Wan can’t say, shouldn’t say, as Vader tugs him out of the pool. His bathrobe is undone with a yank to its sash, then spread out on the floor, where he is pushed down onto his hands and knees, his legs spread wide and ass slanted up. His lover shoves back into him in a single stroke and starts to take him at an unforgiving pace. All that he can do to brace himself is to grip the waterlogged garment underneath him as he rocks back and forth whenever the Sith snaps his hips forward.

_There are still parts of me you can’t find. Parts you can’t ever own. Because they solely belong to me. If they didn’t, then there would be no point in being me. I wish you could understand that._

He shrouds his rebellious thoughts within layers of other emotions that are more potent, more distracting. It helps that the Sith is all too focused on screwing him, visceral feelings of carnality and dominance flooding their bond. He grunts and mewls as that cock drives in repeatedly, mercilessly, to reach the deepest part of his body, each stroke bumping into his prostate, which sends shockwaves of electrifying pleasure through his lower regions and ricochets up his spine to spread to his benumbed head. The heat begins to wind tighter and tighter in his belly. His toes are curling, his fingers clawing, and his hole clenching down.

_And as I am, even now, my love is killing me. I failed him. I hurt him. I ruined him. Now I am his to do with whatever he wishes._

And this is a pledge Obi-Wan has followed through on—still is to this day.

When he was captured, he did not resist.

When he was wedded, he said _I do_.

When he was fucked, he spread his legs.

When he was pregnant, he carried the child.

Just as his love demanded of him, he did it.

A flesh hand curves around his waist to grip his straining member, pumping it vigorously with each thrust. It makes him scream, starbursts sparking behind his eyelids. Fire ready to ignite in his core. “Ah! Ah! No, wait! Uhn! Husba—nhn—husband, don’t! _Anakin_!”

Vader bends over, flattening himself against the length of Obi-Wan’s submissive, curled-up form, and growls out an order. “Come, _now_.”

And Obi-Wan did. Every one of his muscles goes rigid as he sinks down onto the floor while his back arches. The sensual knot of fire trapped within his belly abruptly snaps and then unravels, a reeling experience that makes spots dance in his vision and for all the noise in his ears to white-out. As his orgasm wrings him out raw—evidence of it splattered across the white bathrobe—he dissolves into sobs, both relieved to be liberated of the unbearable pressure and tormented by what will follow.

Seconds later, Vader’s pace falters, and he slams his hips one last time before he finally releases as well, hands braced on either side of Obi-Wan as he grinds down against the other man.

The sensation of hot semen gushing into his body elicits shivers from Obi-Wan, who inwardly mourns for himself, praying that the seed won’t take.

But Obi-Wan realizes that the odds are stacked against him, that praying won’t do any good when his husband bends down to steal a kiss and then mutters, “Not yet. I’m still not done with you yet.”

Hearing this, Obi-Wan admits defeat, resigned to being bedded by his husband for the rest of the night and probably early into the morning. Just thinking about it is exhausting. As for his physical stamina, he doesn’t have enough to get up—not that he wants to, because the person at fault for his sapped strength should be the one taking responsibility for it—but has enough to say in return, “If you want to have your way with me again, at least do in our bedroom. And you have to carry me there.”

Yes, he is resigned indeed. So much for walking out of here on his own two legs. At least he is in one piece.

“Oh? Is that a command, my dear Empress?”

“…If I conserve enough energy that way, then I might have it in me to ride you.”

Out of everything that catches Vader’s attention, _that_ did. Infuriatingly so. A flare of arousal saturated with eagerness and elation shoots through their bond, just as Obi-Wan had expected. The Sith complies to Obi-Wan’s wishes, his mantle flying out of the changing room and into his waiting hand, of which he then drapes over his naked lover. Then he lifts Obi-Wan up into his arms, not at all winded from his earlier exertion or burdened by the older man’s weight. Obi-Wan lets his eyes fall halfway closed and rests his head against his husband’s shoulder while the younger man carries him out of the bathing facility.

The two service droids waiting outside the doors suddenly blink out of sleep mode when the emperor, his consort cradled against his chest, strides out, both soaking wet and one completely naked. The droids emit distressed beeping and clicking sounds, no doubt troubled by the water seeping into the expensive carpet and by their master’s lack of propriety.

“Go clean everything up,” the emperor tosses over his shoulder as he makes his way down the hall. “And no one is to disturb us for the rest of the day, bar the children.”

The tinny voices of the droids respond in unison as they lower their upper halves in a bow. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

* * *

The thing is, Obi-Wan almost _did_ lose himself to insanity during the first few years of his captivity, an unthinkably dark period of his confinement where he had been completely sealed off from the outside. He had been alone with nothing but heartbreak upon heartbreak, darkness within darkness. It had driven him _mad_.

And his near self-destruction was all it took for the emperor to finally concede his wrongdoing, that he shouldn’t have isolated—no, _ruined_ Obi-Wan like that.

Afterward, Obi-Wan had been given some liberties here and there to remedy his previous state of indolence and solitude. He indulged in stimulating activities to preoccupy his mind, conversed with approved individuals via holoprojector for social interaction, and took guard-escorted walks through the gardens to get his fill of fresh air and sunshine.

Above all, the greatest distraction there was had been the least expected.

A family.

When presented his firstborn in a bundle of soft blankets, a string of overpowering emotions—terror, awe, disbelief, elation—had cycled through Obi-Wan all at once, like being struck by multiple earthquakes one after another. He had wept then and there as he peered down at his darling child’s innocent face and knew that he would never be able to tear himself away, much like how he could never let go of his sins, of that desert sunlight child so unbelievably blessed by the Force.

Love—his greatest sin, his unquestionable weakness, the reason for his downfall. He was a victim to an _emotion_ of all things. More than that, he was utterly doomed.

Doomed as he adored his child and any child that came after.

Doomed for being a fool and a failure and a weakling.

Doomed because he had been from the very start.

But, on the other hand, as depressing as it may be, his sacrifice is worth it in some ways. That survivors of the Purge are no longer being hunted, left alive but hidden in exile. That Republic sympathizers and rebel alliances are disgraced and not thoroughly massacred. That planets are allowed to maintain their cultures so long that they are under the Empire’s rule. Many may live at the cost of one life. A broken, tainted life.

His plight can be exemplified perfectly by a religious belief found somewhere in the known worlds: every soul born into existence has the innate propensity to sin.

And Obi-Wan couldn’t agree less.

_Make no mistake—I’ll always want him. I’ll die by this love. If I die a sinful man, then so be it._

All he sees, and all that awaits him, is that man whose life is so inseparable to his own—Anakin and Vader, husband and emperor, lover and Sith.

_You are every sin._

_Every sin I died for._

* * *

From across the room, there is gentle, insistent knocking on the door. Obi-Wan stirs from his rest, having been on the cusp of a deep slumber. A tired groan leaves him as he futilely tries to pry his eyes open, rubbing his face against the pillow underneath his head.

“Your Majesties, your children are calling for you. They demand to see you,” reports a droid, sounding a bit harried.

Obi-Wan is just about to get up from bed when a hand touches his back, stopping him. A gentle brush of a mind against his settles him down as it releases reassuring pulses.

“I’ll take care of it,” Vader murmurs, leaning over his prone form to kiss his bare shoulder and smooth his untidy hair. “Rest, love.”

Obi-Wan believes him, so he closes his eyes and rests.

**Author's Note:**

> Story Sidenotes:
> 
> \- Let’s just say that Vaderkin and Obi-Wan have a whole palace of mini-mes, and they adore each little booger no matter how much they drive them crazy. 
> 
> \- So the Galactic Empire better buckle up for a hellish ride because they’re going to have to deal with a whole army of princes and princesses who carry the precious, holy, insanely powerful Kenobi-Skywalker blood.
> 
> \- BTW, as Empress, Obi-Wan stands as a champion of justice and equality in his own stubborn, self-suffering way through politics. I stan for Empress Obi-Wan, you have no freakin’ clue how much I do. He likes to intimidate enemies over a nice cup of tea in the imperial gardens while decked out in flattering raiment complete with a bejeweled crown like the suave, privileged gentlemen that he is. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. 
> 
> Author's Corner:
> 
> HI, SO HOW WAS MY FIRST FORAY INTO THE SW FANDOM, HM?
> 
> I betcha ya noticed how I avoided doing a canon-related plot. *coughs innocently*
> 
> I was supposed to be finishing up my other WIPs, but I cannot stress enough how this fic dEvOuReD me. Especially with how my imagination kept distracting me with the image of a gorgeous Obi-Wan standing underneath a lovely waterfall. In. That. Damn. White. Bathrobe.
> 
> That being said, you're probably wondering if I'll continue to do SW fics. Hm, I have some ideas, including a multi-chap fic that is just begging me to write it because of all its potential, but again, the fandom is huge and daunting. Idk if I'm capable.
> 
> Anyhow, that's another finished project for the books. It was a wild ride, but I'm proud of it.
> 
> Excuse me for any writing mistakes, and maybe I'll see you around again!
> 
> ~ Ronri Majesty
> 
> (Don't use it much, but here's my [tumblr](https://forlullajustcoffeeplz.tumblr.com) if you wanna support me or just talk!)


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